


There Are No Second Chances

by AeonDelirium



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:59:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonDelirium/pseuds/AeonDelirium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>There was no more need to fear. Ramsay did not matter now. Ramsay was a demon of the past. All that mattered was Robb and the sword he had brought for him. All that mattered was death, and an end to it all.</i> At last."</p><p>After marrying Jeyne and before Edmure's wedding, Robb visits the Dreadfort to deal with a traitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Debts

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts, yeah, I totally used prompts [and totally didn't write this because Alfie Allen suggested Throbbsay in an interview, nope]. So, the prompts I used were _penance_ and _there are no second chances_.
> 
> I'm not perfectly positive where I'm going with this, so bear with me. Also, first ever multichapter fic, mostly because I didn't know how to wrap things up.

The man was all smiles, more mirth in the way his mouth curved than seemed appropriate for dire times as these. There was something disconcerting about his expression, a reflection of light in his teeth, something barely concealed, something wild. The only thing marking him as his father’s son were his eyes, the same pale eyes Lord Roose possessed, leaving little doubt about his heritage.

They were two very different men, father and son, that much was certain, but Robb could not have said which unsettled him more. Still, he had left his army with Roose Bolton, had left his wife with him. He trusted the man. Lord Bolton was loyal. He could never have come this far without him. He owed him more than just his thanks. He owed him his life, truly.

His son, on the other hand …

 

Robb suppressed a shudder, squaring his shoulders as a wave of annoyance passed through him. The sun hung low in the sky behind the Dreadfort’s dark towers, and the clatter of pots and knives that rang from the kitchens announced the day’s end. The sooner all was said and done and finished, the sooner their ways would part again. The sooner he would be with Jeyne again. _Jeyne._ Thoughts of her had kept him warm on the long, hard ride north, and thoughts of her lent a hint of warmth to his smile that was almost genuine when he bowed his head.

Snow bowed deeply in return, brushing the hem of his richly embroidered cloak aside in a gesture that might have looked grand on another man. On him it seemed off, something that did not quite belong there. _A mummer’s trick,_ Robb caught himself thinking as the man straightened again, moving closer, making it appear almost unintentional. Only half a step closer, but Robb became uncomfortably aware of his smell of charred meat and boiled leather. A smell that, on any other man, would never have struck him as strange.

“Your Grace.” His voice was smooth, but with a strange edge to it, a fold of velvet caught on a jagged blade. “Ramsay Snow, if it please you, Lord Roose Bolton’s natural son. I am at your service.”

 _I doubt that,_ Robb thought, resisting the urge to step back, to flinch away from the other man. His fingers curled into fists. He could not let himself be seen so weak, not in times of war, and especially not by Lord Roose’s bastard.

Bastard. He had been warned not to use the word around Ramsay Snow, as it was said to have a most unpleasant effect on his mood. Robb’s jaw tightened. _I’ll be damned if I let this man intimidate me._

“I have come for Theon Greyjoy,” he said simply, avoiding drawn-out courtesies. He ground his teeth for a moment when his tongue almost stumbled on the name. _Theon Greyjoy,_ he thought. _Theon Turncloak, rather. Theon Torch-bearer._

“It has been brought to my attention that you seized him at Winterfell. Surely we agree that he must be returned to justice.”

Snow’s smile faltered for a moment, only the shortest moment, like a candle flame caught in the breeze of a single breath.

“You had better come inside, Your Grace” he said softly, bowing again as he indicated the way. “It would not do to leave my King waiting in the cold.”

*

Snow tried his best to appear charming and well-versed in matters of courtesy, but he did not fool Robb, stumbling on words with too many syllables, gulping his wine in big, greedy mouthfuls, drifting away from the conversation whenever the serving girl caught his eye.

His chambers were richly furnished, but in poor taste, his clothing ill-matched and decadent, his humour so vulgar Robb’s polite laughter nearly caught in his throat.

Ramsay Snow might live in a castle, even keep it in his father’s absence, he might consider himself a lord in all but his name, but in truth he was no better than any butcher’s boy. In truth, Robb would have preferred the company of any butcher’s boy to his. Something about Snow’s desperate attempts to appear noble was disquieting to him, like an ache in his bones, a warning. _His smile is not the only thing that’s off._

The food was welcome, as was the drink, and there was plenty of both. Robb, having spent the best part of a fortnight on horseback, ate and drank without hesitation. Ramsay Snow might be a bastard in more than just blood, but he hardly seemed to possess the finesse and cunning of a poisoner.

More than once he caught himself reaching out as if to ruffle Grey Wind’s fur beside his chair, but of course the direwolf had remained behind, allowing him to travel more swiftly and without fear of being recognised. Jeyne had not liked that decision, telling him she’d prefer if she knew her lord husband had his wolf by his side, as her small white hands curled into his doublet and they kissed goodbye, his young bride tiptoeing to make their lips meet. It was a fond memory, warming him deeper than any wine.

The sun had set, and several more of the jugs had come and gone when Ramsay Snow set down his empty cup, wiped his mouth as daintily as his monstrous hands allowed, and leaned closer to his king. So close Robb frowned. So close he could almost taste the other man’s breath.

There was a flicker of a smile, not quite enough to truly see it. Then, Snow put on a serious face.

“Your Grace, forgive my hesitation,” he said softly, very softly, and his hand hovered over Robb’s knee for a moment, as if to give him a reassuring pat. Sickening.

“I did not know how to approach the subject.” He licked his plump lips, wetting them with spittle, and cast down his eyes with an expression of regret.

“You will want to know what befell your brothers.”

*

Theon sat crouched in the far corner of the cell, his head ducked between his shoulders when the key turned inside the lock. He had heard the sound of boots on stone a long time before they halted at his door, his ears so sensitive in the dark, deep silence of the dungeons that he knew every rat by its step.

_Two sets of boots. Two men. Two tormentors._

He had thought they must be Ramsay and Skinner, at first, as they were his most frequent visitors, but the sound was not familiar. He knew Ramsay’s eager, heavy step like he knew his own heartbeat that stopped for a moment when he imagined what might be in store for him tonight. But the other man, no, that was not Skinner. Skinner was sluggish, sour, slow, dragging his feet along the floor as he tried to keep up with his master. This was not him. It was someone else, someone with a lighter step, a longer stride, though there was something off about it, something unsure, perhaps drink. _Damon, perhaps._ Theon hoped it was Damon.

The whip was almost merciful, compared to the knife.

It took several painfully long moments for his eyes to adjust to the light that flooded his cell when the door finally opened, its creak, though anticipated, so loud it almost made him wail with fear.

Two sets of boots. He almost could not bring himself to look up at the faces. Two men. Two …

 

“Robb?” Theon blinked, rubbing his eyes before he remembered his wounds, the pain numbed by his bewilderment. He trembled, and it was not from the cold.

Could this be true? Or was this another feverish fantasy, another dream come to him to keep his mind from breaking while Ramsay and his men had their way with him?

“ _Robb?_ ” he said again, louder, ignoring the way his voice chafed in his throat like a file, pushing himself to his hands and knees, squinting at the figure in the door. It was true. It was him.

For a tiny moment filled with sweet ache he allowed himself to wallow in the idea of Robb saving him, Robb striking Ramsay’s ugly head from his shoulders, Robb taking him away from this place, Robb mending his broken body, Robb carrying him home. Only there was no more home. Not for Robb, and least of all for Theon Greyjoy. _Theon Turncloak who burned it all._

If anything, the truth was even sweeter when it came to him half a ragged breath later, and a shuddering sob tore through his body when he understood. Robb had come to kill him. Unmake him, unmake this wretched creature he had become. Free him. _At last._

Theon crawled from his corner after a moment’s stunned hesitation, hot tears of relief leaving trails on his dirty face. He was not ashamed. He made no attempt to rise, dragging himself across the floor on hands and knees. He only raised his head briefly to look up at Robb, just to assure himself that he was there, truly there, Robb Stark, tall and stern and wearing the light from the corridor as a fiery crown, and he threw himself down at his feet.

Ramsay watched wordlessly, no more than a bat-like shadow in the door, a nightmare lurking in another thought, another mind. Theon forced himself not to look twice. There was a small twinge of fear in the pit of his stomach where he kept his will to live, but he ignored it, curling his maimed hands against the stone floor until the pain drove all doubt from his thoughts.

There was no more need to fear. Ramsay did not matter now. Ramsay was a demon of the past. All that mattered was Robb and the sword he had brought for him. All that mattered was death, and an end to it all. _At last._

“I’m sorry,” Theon whimpered through his tears, a pitiful sound, his entire body shuddering and shaking with his sobs as he lay crouched in the dirt, his own filth. He was, now, he was. Truly sorry. Not sorry his quest had failed, or that he had not killed Ramsay when Ramsay had still been Reek, and Reek had still been Theon. Truly sorry. Sorry for all he had done. Sorry for Bran, sorry for Rickon. Sorry for the wildling woman Osha and sorry for the miller’s boys. Sorry he was still alive when they were dead. His heart convulsed as he made himself look up again. “Robb, I –”

 

White lights burst before his eyes when Robb’s boot connected with his face.

And Ramsay laughed. It was not his usual laugh, loud and raucous and ugly. It was quiet, barely more than a chuckle. Cruel. _I should have known,_ Theon thought, clutching his face as he writhed on the ground. _I should have known. It’s just another game._ Ramsay, using his smiles and cunning and tricks, had taken Robb, and made him into another playing piece.

Robb did not speak. He did not accuse him. He did not curse him. He did not call him Turncloak, but he kicked him again, burying his foot in the soft cavity beneath his ribs, where his empty stomach rested in its shell of wasted skin.

Theon retched weakly, attempting in spite of himself to curl up and shield his body against the attack.

“Justice prevails, _Turncloak_ ,” Ramsay’s voice rang loudly through another burst of pain, the amusement in his tone so bright and blatant surely Robb must have heard it too, must know that this was all a game, that this was not how it was supposed to be. But Robb did not know Ramsay well enough. Robb, unlike Reek, had been spared the look into this abyss.

Robb was on him, then, and he could smell the wine on his breath, and feel it in the way his hands fumbled for a moment before they caught his collar and shook him until red spots danced in the darkness.

And Robb pulled him to his knees, and pushed him over, and threw him back to the ground.

 

Theon curled his fingers until he was sure the scabs had broken on at least one of the stumps, hoping the pain would carry him away from this place until it was all over. It was no use, Robb’s breathing heavy behind him where he kneeled on the dirty straw. He fumbled with his belt, he tore at his laces, and finally he reached for Theon’s rags, who pressed his lips together and squeezed his eyes shut until he thought his face must collapse inward, a gaping hole in his head.

He was not afraid of the pain. Ramsay had had him before, more than once, more often than he could bear to admit to himself, sneaking into his cell when his blood was boiling and using whatever remedies his body had to offer. It was not the pain he was afraid of.

It was knowing that he would know. Robb would _know_. The thought was torturous, unbearable even in the face of death. To die a man was all he had dared hope for. To die a man was all he wanted. To die as Theon, not as Reek. _Perhaps he won’t see in the dark. Perhaps he won’t notice._

But Robb noticed. He stilled, his fingers brushing past something that was not there, pausing, returning, grasping for something that was missing. The cell seemed to grow even colder. And there was the sound again. Not quite a laugh.

 

“Of course I had his cock cut off after what he did to the children, Your Grace.”

There was the catch. There was the game. Another picture painted of another him he’d never been. The Iron Prince, the Turncloak, the loyal pet, the servant. And now. _The monster._ But not this time, no, this time Ramsay wouldn’t win, not when the end was so near at last he could almost grasp it. Not when he could almost feel his weary head fall from his shoulders.

“I didn’t!” he cried, craning his neck to look Robb in the face, meeting his eyes despite the hands on his hipbones, despite the unbuckled belt. Despite Winterfell. “Robb, I never hurt Bran, or Rickon, you know I didn’t, you know they were my brothers just the same, I –”

Something shattered inside his mouth when his face hit the ground, the taste of blood rich and heavy on his tongue a moment after. Something shattered inside his heart.

“Shut your mouth!” Robb bellowed as he threw himself on top of him, raining blows all over his back, his arms, his head, digging his fingers into his throat, pulling and tearing and battering him into the filthy ground until he thought he must break. Robb’s voice quivered with rage and tears, and Theon’s vision was blurred and wet just the same as his limbs danced uncontrollably, writhing away from the pain.

But it was not the pain that made him cry. He had not been beaten quite so hard since the day he had last said _no_ to Ramsay and finally learned his name, had not seen so many stars since he had last been granted a look at the night sky, but he was not crying because of the pain.

_Brothers. We were brothers, once._

 

“Robb –” he began once more, but Robb cut him short, burying a hand in his matted hair and pulling his head back until he could not breathe. When he saw the other man’s face from the corner of his eye, Theon’s blood ran cold, and he knew he’d lost. All his truths were lies. He had been marked a traitor once and for all. After all the faces he had worn and the people he had been, son, brother, lover, hostage, friend, dog, perhaps he had finally found his true name. _Turncloak. A turncloak until the end. Whatever I say now, he will never believe me._

Robb’s voice still shook as he spoke, but it was quiet now, barely a whisper.

“By the Old Gods and the new,” he said, and there was something so bitter about his face it almost made him look old, reminding Theon of the dead Starks and their faces of stone, how they’d terrified him when he first came to Winterfell. He’d been no more than a boy then. A hostage. An innocent. Robb drew in a sharp breath when he opened his mouth.

“I’ll rip your filthy tongue out if you don’t keep it behind your teeth, Turncloak _._ ”

Theon closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather enough breath to speak.

“Kill me, then,” he managed, and his own voice was so cold and unfamiliar in his ears he shivered, his broken fingers scrabbling uselessly against the ground as he hung there in Robb’s grip, bent and breaking at the seams. “Do what you came to do.”

 

He did not open his eyes again when Robb’s other hand closed around his throat. Of course, there was no greatsword for a turncloak. There was no sentence for a wicked, wretched creature such as him. There was only a hand and a quick squeeze, no more effort than those pups he’d been so eager to kill a lifetime ago, and perhaps a shallow grave without a name. It was just. It was death. _It will do._

They sat there for a moment, in silent agreement, waiting for his breath to run out. Robb made a sound that might have been a sob, but Theon chose not to hear it.

His body trembled and shook when his lungs were empty, legs twitching and fingers curling as his mouth opened and closed in vain, but he did not struggle. The pain began to ebb away as every heartbeat felt a little fainter and his sight grew dim, the dark walls melting into the floor until they were a big, black orb around them, a blissful void.

 _If people knew how good it feels to die,_ he thought vaguely, and a crooked smile spread on his sunken face at last, _winter would find the world silent and empty._

The hand was gloved in smooth leather, but it almost felt warm against his skin.

 


	2. Bribes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon wants nothing more than a little warmth, and to make it up to Robb. His options are limited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, and that it turned out so long, and that Ramsay didn't really get a big part. He will in the next chapter, I promise.

Theon awoke with pain in his chest and a cry in his throat.

His eyes refused to open, and when they did the darkness lingered. A familiar darkness, one he had known for months, the very same darkness that had seen the birth of Reek.

His limbs ached. It did not come as much of a surprise. Every part of his body had its own, familiar pain. There was the constant rumbling of his stomach that made him feel so hollow sometimes he thought he might just collapse inwards, that his insides might eat themselves. There was the ache of sinews and muscles and tendons that had been stretched too far or twisted the wrong way. There was the dull throbbing of bruises that covered his body in various shades of blue, yellow and greenish brown. There was the pull of old scars and the sting of fresh cuts, and the strange, stubborn tingling where his fingers had been.

He sat up where he had been carelessly sprawled out on the floor like a pile of rags, his mind still slow with sleep. _I had a dream that I was dead,_ he thought bitterly as the ache in his chest intensified. _I had a dream Robb killed me._

His lashes were crusted with sleep and dried-up tears, and he reached up to rub his eyes, flinching and gasping when a sharp jolt of pain shot through his face. The skin was swollen and hot to the touch and came alive with memories of blows as his fingers explored. Other parts of his body began to remember, too, ribs grinding against each other where they had cracked, his scalp prickling where a handful of hair had come loose. It was no great surprise, truly. He must have done something wrong. Sometimes, when he forgot his name, Ramsay beat him so hard and so thoroughly he lost consciousness, so hard he could not remember the beating or his crime. But when he woke up in his cell, in the dark, his body covered in pain and shame inside and out, he would always remember his name.

Finally, his throat remembered.  
Theon’s blood ran cold, fingertips brushing over rough, chafed skin. He swallowed, felt the way his muscles strained, the way his windpipe contracted, his breath stuck in a silent gasp. Ramsay must have choked him. He enjoyed playing with his breath, squeezing his throat just long enough to see the light flicker in his eyes, just long enough to make him believe if only for the shortest moment that he would finally let him go. Ramsay enjoyed the way his pulse slowed underneath his fingers, growing fainter and fainter against his skin … his skin.

Theon swallowed again. Gloves. He remembered gloves.

 

He froze where he sat when he heard the sound, his muscles locking in position while his heart shrivelled with fear. It was an ugly sound, and one he knew well. There was a pair of iron manacles set into the stone of the opposite wall, where he had spent his first few days (or had it been weeks?) in this place. Learning. Learning that no one would come for him if he screamed, learning that it was no use to try and free himself, and would only leave him sore, learning his name.

Ramsay still chained him up sometimes, when he had been defiant. Sometimes simply because he liked the way the heavy irons could barely restrain his thin wrists, the way they were almost thin enough to wriggle out. It was this _almost_ he enjoyed the most.

But he was not chained up, of that he was certain, almost quite certain. _Perhaps it’s finally happened. Perhaps I’ve finally gone mad._ Perhaps Theon and Reek had finally become separate creatures, one writhing in chains, one watching. The thought was so strange and nightmarish that for a moment it made him shudder, making his heartbeat drop and his skin crawl. Theon ground his teeth in helpless annoyance. Reek whimpered with pain and remembered his name. Both still lived inside his heart. It was not him. There was someone else, someone in the cell with him. And he was wearing his chains.

It did not take long for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He was always in darkness, after all, and it was merely a matter of willing his tired mind to see. And he _saw._ And he wished he hadn’t.

Little by little, it all came flooding back. Two sets of boots, the screeching door, the smell of wine. Ramsay’s quiet little laugh. Robb’s fists. _Robb._ His face. His gloves. Theon shivered, but he could not help himself but crawl a little closer, just to confirm he was not dreaming.

 

Even after the beating, even now that Robb _knew,_ his insides still ached with warmth and gratitude as he looked upon him, saw his chest rise and fall evenly, saw his bruised face twitch briefly with a passing dream. He had forgotten how good it felt not to be alone. Sometimes, when Ramsay left him to himself long enough, he would even feel a twinge of happiness to see his face, his monstrous, broad, sneering face. He would crawl over to where he stood and crouch by his feet and hope for a bit of warmth.

Theon could feel Robb’s warmth, even with half a dark, damp cell between them, emanating from his body like a blissful cloud. He felt the cold ache of his own bones, and the tiny shivers painting goosebumps across his back and ribs.

He inched a little closer, and closer again after a moment’s hesitation, until he was close enough to lean his head against Robb’s shoulder. He nudged his nose against it first, and flinched at the pain that shot through the bruises he had been given earlier.

Robb remained fast asleep, apart from a soft little sound at the back of his throat as Theon’s fingers brushed a strand of hair from his face. _Unconscious, perhaps._ Judging from the marks he bore and the marks he felt on his own body, Ramsay had made carefully sure to give him no less than what Theon had received. It had all been a trap, like everything Ramsay ever did, every game he ever devised.

Hesitant nuzzling became burying his face in Robb’s doublet, crouching timidly by his side became draping his arm across his chest, and before he knew it, Theon was curled up against him, pressing as close to him as he could, as if hoping their bodies might merge and become one, become whole.

When Robb woke, he thought, he would win his forgiveness. He would. He would explain. He would tell him Bran and Rickon were alive, that he had never, would never have … He could hardly even bear to finish the thought. But he would tell him what had happened and why, and weep and beg and show him his mutilated hands until he had no other choice but to forgive him.

The thought was like curdled milk in his stomach, making him feel queasy as he remembered all the ways he had been trod down and humiliated, and pictured all the ways he was willing to do it over again to himself if only it would buy him a smile from Robb. If not a smile, perhaps a kind word. Perhaps just a single look that was neither hurt nor anger.

In truth he knew that there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could say, nothing he had to offer, no words, no swords, not even arms strong enough to wield one, his remaining fingers so weak they would have slipped from the hilt. There was nothing he could do. He was useless, as Lord Ramsay liked to remind him. _There’s only one thing you’re good for, Reek,_ he would say, and force his head between his meaty thighs. And Reek would do the best he could to please, while Theon could do nothing but watch and retch and wait for it to pass.

 

Robb’s thighs were different, he thought with a strange sense of detachment as his hands came to rest on them; they were lean muscle, hard and healthy. Legs that walked and worked and fought, legs to carry you to the end of the world. Legs unfit for shackles. Robb had always been strong, inside and out, stronger than he looked. Theon almost smiled when he remembered the way those legs had wrapped around him as they wrestled in the dirt, punching and hooting and laughing until Catelyn Stark put an end to their fun. Robb’s legs had not changed, and perhaps his heart, too, remained the same.

Theon’s mirth turned bitter when he saw his own hands resting against Robb’s legs, filthy bandages and bones, and he knew nothing could ever be as it had been, then.

 _In the end our shells show who we are._ Ramsay the monster. Robb the Young Wolf. And Theon … Perhaps Theon had only ever been a mask, all the easy smiles and the jokes, all the girls. Perhaps this was his true face. _Reek._

Robb stirred when his maimed hand slid down his breeches, gingerly wrapping around his length. His eyes opened when his lips followed. The chains screeched in their hinges.

“What are you doing?” Theon saw his fingers clench from the corner of his eye, and his own hands curled into the fabric of Robb’s breeches as he lowered his head, taking him into his mouth. _I don’t know,_ he thought desperately, suppressing a whimper as the flesh brushed past his broken teeth, warm and salty on his tongue, _gods help me if I do._

It was easier to imagine Ramsay. Ramsay grabbing fistfuls of his shaggy hair as he forced his head down, hissing and groaning and calling him names. Ramsay forcing himself down his throat until he could not breathe. Ramsay laughing as his body trembled with exhaustion and the lack of air. _Better Ramsay than this,_ Theon thought. _And better Reek than me._

Robb cursed him. Robb tensed and struggled and hissed. Robb did what he had done, a lifetime ago, that first time. It did him no good, just like it had done him no good, back then, in this very cell. A cold shiver ran through his veins with the memory, and Theon closed his eyes as he focused on his task.

“Get off me!” Robb’s voice trembled with strain, and Theon could almost hear the flush on his face as his thighs clenched beneath his hands. “If you think you can toy with me like your _master_ –” He broke off then as Theon renewed his efforts, desperate to silence him.

This was different, of course, he thought, his mouth so full of bile and hardening flesh he almost gagged. He was giving pleasure instead of taking it, or so he told himself, ignoring the quiet little voice in the back of his mind that told him that this was _wrong,_ that they were _brothers_. Ignoring Robb’s voice, growling, and ignoring his laboured breathing, laced with gasps.

This was all he had to offer, after all, what little still remained of his dignity the last bribe that was his to give away. And so he licked and kissed and sucked, using all the tricks he had been taught, all the knowledge he had gathered, and begging his body to bear with him until it was over. _Another breath, another move,_ he told himself. _Almost there,_ he told himself, as he had so many times before. _Be good and they will not hurt you._

Finally, blessedly, Robb came, making a sound somewhere between a grunt and a sob, and Theon’s mouth filled with bitterness. He coughed and sputtered, tried to swallow but only made himself retch, pulled away too soon and made a mess of both their clothing.

 

He could not even bear to touch Robb long enough to try and clean him up, instead hastily tugging him into his breeches before he crept back to the dark corner he had come from, head ducked down like a frightened dog.

There was no escaping Robb’s eyes, however, lidded and red and clouded with exhaustion, yet alive with so much hatred it gripped his insides like an iron fist.

Theon licked his chapped lips, the traces of what he had done still bitter on his tongue. There were tastes he knew he would always remember; the salty air as their boat approached the coast of Pyke, the mouth of a whore he had kissed in the winter town, the burnt, blackened skin of the first fish he’d caught and roasted over a fire until it was charred. And now this. Theon bit his lip. _It’s not my memory,_ he thought desperately, _it’s not my tongue. It’s Reek’s._

For the first time in weeks, he caught himself wishing he could have washed. The filth that Ramsay covered him in, that he covered himself in, it was Reek’s. Reek stank. It was his name, and his name was who he was.

These stains were different. They were shameful. They were disgusting. They were covering whatever hopes he might have had for the future in a thick layer of grime and cold sweat.

Robb remained silent as his breathing slowly returned to normal. He stared. Stared at Theon, who faltered and fidgeted beneath his gaze, stared at the dark ceiling, stared at the cooling puddle on the floor between his legs. He seemed strangely unhinged, almost as bewildered and disgusted as his former friend. Despair bubbled up in Theon’s stomach. This was not how it had been supposed to go. _He was supposed to enjoy it._ Men enjoyed these things, didn’t they? He knew the answer was there, somewhere, but it was just another thing he had known in another life.

A long time passed.

 

“I swear. I swear I didn’t” Theon said finally, uncomfortably aware of the way the words caught in the empty spaces between his remaining teeth, deforming them, changing them, ridiculing them. With Ramsay it never mattered; after all a _please don’t_ was just as pathetic wheezed through broken teeth as whimpered through whole ones. Reek hardly cared how he looked or sounded, his heart hardly hurt by his master’s malicious laughter. He only ever wanted his limbs to hurt a little less. Theon though, he shuddered at the sound, the lisp, his own voice, _lisping_ , as if hearing it for the first time.

He’d always hoped he might store himself away some place safe, to wait until the worst was over, unmarred and whole and ready for the day he’d finally escape, and crumble Reek to the wind like ashes. Theon had thought he could live in minds and memories until that day, lying in deep sleep like a bear in winter. He’d thought he’d _survive_.

And now it was him who was crumbling away, replaced by this ugly, broken thing that was not him. When Robb remembered him, he would remember a ruin, not a man. A freak. He curled his fingers until he wanted to scream, desperate to chase the thought from his mind.

“Why would I lie to you?” he blurted out, just to fill the silence with sound. The lisp was less noticeable when he raised his voice.

Robb gave him a long look. There was no wrath in it, no sadness. He was studying him, Theon thought, looking for the truth he knew was there, and so he met his glance unafraid. _It’s right here,_ he thought, _it’s true. I never hurt them._

“Because it’s all you’ve got,” Robb said finally, grimacing as he shifted his weight, chains scraping along the damp stone with a sound that set Theon’s broken teeth on edge. “Your fingers won’t grow back, and you know that. No one is coming for you. No one will take you home. You’ll die here.” Robb shook his head and gave a shrug, only the slightest movement of his cramped shoulders, but it sent a stabbing pain through Theon’s chest.

“It’s the last thing you can hope for. My forgiveness.”

There was a long silence after that, in which the weight of Robb’s words sank to the bottom of Theon’s heart, crushing the walls and shields and fences he’d built to protect the small part of him that had not yet given up. Robb was strangling him a second time. He could not breathe, sucking at the air but feeling only the weight, pressing down on his lungs, his stomach, his entire being. His vision flickered.

He cried for a little while, careless of Robb’s eyes that still lingered on his trembling frame. There were no real tears, his body too parched and withered and used up to produce anything but dry shivers. Finally, he became very still.

“I did not kill them, Robb,” he whispered, and shuddered with a final, stray sob. “I didn’t. It’s … he lied, Robb.” His voice nearly broke, and he could not help but shrink a little as the words left his lips, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as he waited for a blow to fall, for Ramsay to emerge from the shadows in a whirl of boots and blades. It did not happen.

Robb did not look at him again, instead closing his eyes and leaning his weary head back against the wall.

“Winter is coming,” he said, his voice raw and thick with grief as his lips formed his father’s words. “Bran is crippled, Rickon but a boy. Even if they ran, they would never have made it to the nearest holdfast.” A soft sound of pain broke from his throat as he shifted his weight once more, sending a shiver down Theon’s spine.

“One way or another, you murdered them.”

*

It was almost a blessing when Ramsay finally came for them.

Again Theon had heard him coming a long time before he reached the door, allowing his hurt pride, his hopes and dreams to slink back into oblivion’s sweet shadow as Reek emerged from it. It was easier this way. He took his post by the door, crouched on his hands and knees as if he did not feel Robb’s eyes boring into the back of his skull. He did feel them, but they were miles away, watching him across an ocean so wide and vast he could hardly feel the sting.

 

Content painted a grin onto Ramsay’s features when he saw him, kneeling at his feet the moment he stepped through the door. In his hand was a torch that guttered and spat in the breeze from the corridor, so blindingly bright it drove the tears to Theon’s reddened eyes.

“Have you missed me, Reek?” he said softly, as if speaking to someone who had just woken from a deep sleep. Theon nodded, closing his eyes against the light.

“Of course, my lord.” His voice was hoarse and dry and not quite honest, though he thought he was getting better at pretending. Or perhaps his ears had simply grown used to his own lies. “I miss you when you are not with me.”

Ramsay laughed at that, and sighed as he crouched down beside him, careful not to set them both on fire.

“Still such an awful liar, Theon Turncloak.” The prisoner winced at the name, the blood freezing in his veins as Ramsay reached out to ruffle his matted curls. His fingers would tighten in his hair any moment now, he knew, to yank him to his feet, or worse.

“It’s the truth, my lord,” he whined, seeking his master’s eyes, but Ramsay did not seem to listen, instead glancing past him where Robb was chained up in the dark.

“That the Starks did not see your betrayal coming only shows what a sorry pack of stupid cunts they are. Isn’t that right, Reek?”

Theon heard the chains scrape and screech behind his back, and for a moment the words stuck in his throat. _Of course, my lord,_ he wanted to say, but managed only an incoherent croak. Ramsay’s eyes returned to his face as he was about to ask again, but something bade him stop. His smile died abruptly. Now his fingers tightened to a fist. He squinted.

“What’s this then?”

Theon whimpered when the torch came closer to his face, hissing and crackling and too bright, but he dared not move away even when Ramsay let go of his hair.

Ramsay wet his thumb with a flick of his tongue. By the time Theon understood, it was too late, a nail scraping along his bottom lip.

Ramsay looked at the substance on his fingertip in quiet contemplation, then stuck it in his mouth. Theon sat back on his knees as the air went out of him with a soundless sigh. He could tell he was losing before the game had even begun.

Ramsay’s eyes darkened.

“Or perhaps you simply sucked the brains right out of them.”


	3. Payments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a struggle. I don't normally write explicit sex, but the goal was to make Throbbsay happen, so I made it happen, gods have mercy.

“My sweet Reek, so clever in his own, stupid way.” Ramsay brushed Theon aside with ease so he fell over on his back like a bug, before he strode to the other side of the cell with smooth, measured steps, catching bits of straw and dirt on his cloak, but he did not care.

Robb glared up at him through a curtain of dishevelled hair, chains rattling as his muscles tensed. Ramsay smiled in return, sketching a bow.

“See, Your Grace” he said softly, and shot Theon a look over his shoulder that made him scramble back to his knees, “he merely wanted to convince you that his head is more useful on his shoulders than stuck on a spike.” He fell silent after that, taking in the mess Theon had made and the way Robb Stark did not at all seem pleased. A moment passed.

Then Ramsay chuckled, the same he had the night before, quiet, but infinitely amused, as if laughing about some secret joke that had not yet been told, that only he knew. Theon shuddered, unable to rid himself of the dreadful feeling that they would soon be let in on his merriment. He was right.

 

Robb jumped when the manacles clicked open, jumped at Ramsay like a wild dog let off its chain, like a wolf let loose. Indeed there was something feral about him as he dug his fingers into Ramsay’s throat, and in the half-dark the fur-trimmings on his collar and sleeves looked almost alive, a part of him. Theon’s limbs tensed with fear as they remembered the beating they’d had, and he realised there was only Ramsay between him and another hail of blows, another encounter with this wounded animal that was Robb Stark. The thought made him bite his lip in order not to retch.

They wrestled for a moment before Ramsay put an end to it, trapping the other man in a parody of an embrace.

“But Your Grace,” he rasped, his tall frame heaving with heavy breaths, “this is no way to thank your generous host, truly.” One of his hands closed around Robb’s throat, squeezing a thin, strangled sound from him. Theon nearly fell over again as he tried to stand, covering his mouth with his hands to muffle his incoherent sounds of fear. _Don’t let him kill him, do something, grab his legs, stop him, do something …_ He made half a step forward, half a step toward them, almost reaching out, then collapsed into a pile on the floor, his cowardice a heavy weight atop him. He did not dare. He could not. He sobbed once, an invisible collar tightening around his throat, holding him back. Ramsay stilled at that, his smile spreading through his entire body until he almost glowed. He glanced at Theon from the corner of his eye before he returned his attention to the man in his arms.

“See, Your Grace,” he said once more, running his thumb along Robb’s pulse, loosening his grip just enough for him to suck in a wheezing breath. “My Reek is not the man you knew. He is a good servant. Perhaps you are in need of another … demonstration.” He paused another moment as if in thought, then gathered Robb in his arms like a lover, bringing his ear close to his lips. His smile faded.

“You either play along, Stark, or you die. And who will avenge your father then?”

 

Robb staggered for a moment when he was released, grabbing blindly at his own throat, coughing and spitting as he tried to fill his lungs with air.

“Here, Your Grace, let me help you.” Ramsay stepped beside him as if to support him, but slid his thick arms around his waist instead, and opened his loosened laces with ease.

“Reek, hands and knees.”

Theon did not obey at once, the words distorted and far away, as if called across the sea and through a storm. Instead, he stared at the scene before him in bewilderment.

Robb began to struggle once more when Ramsay’s fingers closed around him, a breathless giggle slipping from the larger man’s throat.

“That’s a nice cock,” he commented, casually trapping Robb’s wrists against his chest with his other hand as though it was nothing. The Young Wolf was fierce, that much was true, but Ramsay possessed an iron strength not easily outmatched. Theon could see him straining though, the muscle and veins of his neck hard and swollen underneath pink skin, beads of sweat forming on his brow. His smile was half mirth, half grinding his bared teeth. _He’s pretending,_ Theon thought bitterly. _Pretending he’s the strongest. He pretends so well it becomes true in the end._

“Your lady wife must be so pleased.”

Robb ground his teeth as well, yanking his arms this way and that way, kicking his legs and arching his back, all in vain. It was like looking at a mirror image from a lifetime ago.

Ramsay caught Theon’s gaze, wide-eyed as he stared up at them.

“Oh, that’s right, Reek,” he said softly, and wet his lips with his tongue. “You never got the news. _The King in the North_ wed while you were away.” His fingers worked slowly now, but with terrible determination as he leaned closer to Robb, so close he must have felt his moist breath against his ear, so close Theon could feel it.

“Jeyne Westerling,” he breathed, another laugh leaving his lips as Robb tensed, his pale face glistening with a sheen of cold sweat. “A beautiful girl, isn’t she, Your Grace? You told me all about her last night, didn’t you? Her small white hands, hmm? How soft they were in yours, how delicate.” Ramsay’s eyes were lidded, but Theon could still see their pale glimmer in the dark.

_Jeyne Westerling,_ he thought bemusedly. A stranger’s name. The name of Robb’s wife. _He has a wife. And I do not even know her. I wasn’t even at their wedding._

“The scent of her hair … what did you say it was?” Ramsay smirked, staring into nothingness for a moment as he tried to recall the past night’s drunken conversation. “ _Wild flowers and the salt of her skin._ ” He barked out a laugh before he could restrain himself, frowning when his hard-earned efforts went to waste with the sound as Robb once more began to struggle. “Hush, Your Grace,” he whispered, his voice strained as he fought to hold the other man in place. “Think of your wife. Her soft pink lips …” He grinned, wetting his own once more. “Her _soft pink lips_. Think of her taste.”

Theon almost wept with how much he wanted to see her, he realised, the feeling a dull ache in his chest – it had been so long since he had last seen a beautiful girl, or any girl at all. He longed for it like a child might long for its mother. A gentle face. A sweet scent. Soft skin, soft hands to wipe his tears away. A voice to sing him to sleep. Skirts to hide him away from the world. Someone kind and unspoiled, a rare treasure not to be found in such a place as this.

 

Robb’s head was tilted back as if staring into the dark air, but his eyes were closed. His lips moved ever so slightly, shaky breaths wafting from his mouth in pale misshapen clouds as Ramsay touched him. _He is thinking of her,_ Theon thought. This mysterious woman he should have known, should have kissed on the cheek as he paid his respects to the bride and groom. He would never kiss her, now, never know her.

But perhaps he could _be_ her. His eyes darted over Robb’s face once more, his tired face on his weary head that needed rest, that needed Ramsay to leave them alone. _I learned how to be Reek,_ he thought, taking a deep breath as he finally followed Ramsay’s order, positioning himself on his hands and knees. _I can be Jeyne if need be. It’s just another name._

 

“Your breeches, Reek”, Ramsay’s voice rang softly from behind, careful not to startle Robb out of his trance-like state.

Theon nodded hastily, fumbling with his rags for a moment before they slid down his thighs and pooled around his knees, far too big for his stick-like legs. _It’s not Reek though,_ he told himself as he rested his head on the floor between his elbows. _It’s Jeyne._ He froze when he heard Ramsay spit into his hand. Robb’s groan came a moment after. _It rhymes with pain._

It was not until he felt Robb behind him that his skin began to crawl. No, this was wrong. Just as wrong as it had been the night before, just as wrong as what he had done earlier. He was not Reek, just as much as he was not Jeyne. He was Theon, and this was Robb behind him, _Robb,_ not his husband, not his enemy but his brother.

Theon buried his hands in his hair, swallowing two sobs before the third broke from his lips with an ugly, wet sound that tore through the silence. Robb’s hands touched his thighs, awkwardly, unsure where and how to hold on, part irritation, part determination, part hesitation. Neither of which did him any good. Finally, they came to rest on his hipbones, as they had before. As Ramsay’s had before. Theon pressed his lips together, shaking.

“Hush now, Reek.” Ramsay’s hand slid underneath his cheek, stroking the coarse stubble of his beard for a moment before his fingers tightened about his chin and lifted his head. Theon looked up reluctantly and through a veil of tears, flinching when he found himself presented with Ramsay’s cock. The man smiled maliciously.

“Let’s wash his taste from your mouth, Reek, shall we?”

Theon replied with a soft sound of pain when Robb pushed against him and then _into_ him, _Robb_ , his brother, using him like a wench, just like Ramsay had, unbearable. His field of vision shrunk to a whirlpool of shadow and teeth and skin, the heart pounding in his chest, turning his blood into a thunderous current that roared in his ears.

And Robb hurt him. Robb hurt him just like Ramsay had, moving in the same dreadful rhythm, making the same sounds. The sounds men made as they took their pleasure, sounds Theon had made himself, once. All that was left to him now were sobs and whimpers, pleas when he found words, but for this he had none.

He allowed Ramsay to take his face between his hands then, guiding his mouth between his legs.

 

His taste was so familiar he felt calmed for the shortest of moments, before a wave of self-hatred crashed over him and he almost retched, trying to pull back as all thought and reason fled his mind. Ramsay knew him, though, knew his every disgusted whimper, every twitch of his eyelids, and his fingers caught in his hair before he could move so much as an inch, securing him in place. He fought for another moment before he breathed evenly, steadying himself, allowing his limbs to sink into place as they had so many times before. There were only so many shapes Reek could take. And this was one of them. He closed his eyes, and his lips fit perfectly around Ramsay’s cock, made for it. And there was nothing wrong with that, or so he told himself, battering the insistent little voice in the back of his head into submission. Nothing wrong with it at all.

Ramsay did not choke him this time, did not pull his hair again after he had ceased to struggle, did not curse or hiss or insult him. He held his head with surprising gentleness, letting him take as much as he could, leaving him enough space to breathe comfortably. A small kindness so cruelly well-placed it felt like true mercy.

It was Robb who hurt him, who made his body clench and shake, who made his eyes fill with fresh tears. There was pleasure to be gained from it sometimes, when Ramsay used him, something set trembling inside him, though the thought alone was so painful Theon wanted to tear himself to pieces when it crossed his mind, and he prayed for his body to remain cold, to remain tormented.

It was easier when he was Reek. Reek did not care; he was grateful for all he was given, and truly, it was only right it should please him to please his lord. He would allow himself to shiver and sigh, moving as Ramsay moved, revelling in that one short blissful moment that felt _good_ before it all came apart. Before he became useless again, nothing but a pile of bones wrapped in stinking rags, before he was hurt again. Reek ate when he was given food, and he slept where he was dropped to the floor, and he moaned when he was given pleasure. Reek was a simple creature, and he was all that stood between Theon and the raging abyss that was his pain and guilt.

 

His eyes opened abruptly when Ramsay sucked in a sharp breath to announce that he had reached his peak, and he remembered who he was, and where, and whose hands were pulling on his hips to meet another thrust. A tear rolled down his cheek as he looked up, and it was then that Ramsay found his release. His hands tightened in his hair and he whispered breathless praise, and spent himself inside his mouth.

His head jerked back involuntarily, but Ramsay’s hands fingers held fast, keeping him in place until he swallowed. And this time, despite the effort it took, despite the vile liquid churning in his empty stomach, he did not spill a single drop.

Ramsay kissed the top of his head when he released him, and for once, Theon did not shudder. A whimper escaped his mouth as he withdrew, as if all the pain pent up inside was finally leaking out. He was sore, and aching, and all he wanted was to sleep, and never to wake again.

Ramsay’s smile was soft and warm, his hands gentle when he took his face between them once more to look at him. They both listened as the breath caught in Robb’s throat, and Theon’s eyes glazed over for a moment, his lips parted to a painful gasp, and it was done.

Theon slumped forward when Robb withdrew and let him go, burying his head in Ramsay’s lap, mindless, thoughtless, but grateful for the warmth and mercy of his hands and arms that held him, allowing him to believe if only for a heartbeat that he _cared._

 

“See, Your Grace,” Ramsay said one last time, once Robb had straightened his clothes and Theon had spent the last of his tears. “Now you understand why I would rather keep him.”

Robb remained silent, but it was a silence Theon knew well. It was the silence of the boy sent to bed without dinner, of the son who could not save his father. The silence of too much pain, too much grief, a lifetime of it, weighing down on lungs and tongues until there were no more words.

“For all I care,” he finally said, forming the words with great effort. Theon raised his head just in time to see his shoulders straighten, his face that of a statue once more, lifeless, his eyes dull and cold as they lingered on him. “For all I care, Theon Greyjoy is dead.”

Ramsay’s fingers curled in his hair, and he smiled up at Robb as he placed another kiss on the dirty curls, before he pushed Theon away with gentle force and rose. Theon lay where he was left, staring into the darkness unblinking, sprawled out on the dirty straw. His body itself was like a straw, hollow, brittle, empty. _Theon Greyjoy is dead._ His face twisted into an ugly grimace somewhere between a smile and a soundless cry of pain. _May he rest in peace, then._

 

Ramsay, smiling, extended a hand to Robb. The other man, broken, filthy and weary though he was, did not flinch. He did not take the hand. Ramsay let it sink after a moment, though his smile lingered.

“It would seem our business here is done then, Your Grace.” His voice was smooth and polished and dark, and Theon, the dead man, felt its chill seep to the very core of his rotting bones. Robb looked up at him dully, not comprehending. Ramsay’s smile widened as he made another step toward him.

“Our situation,” he said, inclining his head in Theon’s direction. “ _Theon Greyjoy is dead._ The debt is paid. Is that not so? Your Grace?” His tone became more urgent, nudging him, asking him to play along. _Don’t,_ Theon thought, but he was dead and did not matter. The dead always knew better, yet no one ever listened to them. _Don’t don’t don’t._

Finally, Robb nodded. “Yes,” he agreed, his voice hoarse. “It is paid.”

“Very well then, Your Grace.” Ramsay leaned forward, and now Robb flinched, if only for half a heartbeat, shrinking away from the touch. A laugh rose from Ramsay’s throat as he held up a single straw he had picked from his hair. “Your Grace will want a bath and a hot meal before we see you off. Isn’t that right, Reek?”

Theon froze when they both looked his way, wishing they would leave a dead man his peace, trying to make sense of Ramsay’s words, his sudden change of mind. Could it be? Would he let Robb go, now, now that he was dead? … and then he understood. His blood ran cold, cold as that of a real corpse.

“And I think the two of us should treat ourselves to something special. Now that we have all _this_ out of the way.” Ramsay walked back over to him, nudging him with his boot before he opened the cell door, making the torch gutter and spit anew as a current of cool air flooded in. Ramsay took it, motioning for Robb to stumble ahead before he nodded to Reek. He watched with satisfaction as his creature struggled to his knees, crawling to his side. His teeth gleamed in the light, and Reek did his best to return the smile, all ruins of bone and blood.

“How long has it been since I last took you hunting?”


	4. Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took forever, but it was a bit of a ~~bastard~~ bitch to write. And thus ends my first multi-chapter fic in this fandom. Thanks for reading!

There was food. Theon knew he shouldn’t take it, shouldn’t accept the plate of charred meat and mashed turnips set on the floor before him, he knew he shouldn’t eat it, or, for the love of the gods, should at least try not to _enjoy_ it so much. He could not help himself, his dirty hands covered to the wrists in grease and mash as he dug in, hunched over the dish as though he feared someone might take it from him.

Of course, no one had any reason to begrudge him his modest meal; Ramsay and Robb were seated not far from him on the dais, the latter silent and dull-eyed, but clean again, the former sporting a sharp-toothed grin in between sucking strips of meat from a chicken leg.

 

_How long has it been since I last took you hunting?,_ he’d said. Theon did not know. He had never been hunting with Ramsay, but he knew Reek had been, in another life, when his face had been different and his hands had been whole. Ramsay would talk about the things they had done together, sometimes, especially when he was drunk. _Remember how we took down that stag, Reek? How we dragged it back home through the rain, and father had it fed to the dogs?_

Ramsay laughed about something Damon said in his ear then, laughed so loud Theon was startled out of his thoughts, retreating under the table like a snail in its house. The sound was unbearable, almost hysterical, pitched in a way that stung in his ears. Ramsay only laughed like this when he hurt someone, or at least planned to. His smile lingered when he looked to the King, though his eyes were strangely cold, unblinking. Theon shivered, and his stomach churned when he put the last piece of meat back on the plate and wiped his hands on his breeches. Perhaps they would feed Robb to the dogs, too, after they had dragged him back through the rain.

It was times like these that he was truly grateful for Reek, for being allowed this wretched, dirty second skin. Theon did not want to yield. He did not want to be weak. Whenever it all became too much to bear he simply slipped out of himself, like shedding a cloak that had grown too heavy. Of course, it hurt more than just that. His bones ached when he curled up on himself, and his chest whistled in a low whine, a death wheeze. _He’s going to kill him,_ he said to himself, rubbing snot and tears and grease into the collar of his shirt as he hid his face inside it, until his own bad breath enveloped him. _And he’s going to make me watch._

*

They gave him his cloak and his sword, and enough bread and dried meat and water to last a week. It was all a farce, of course. They all knew, gathered in the courtyard in the early morning rain. Theon knew, huddled in a corner by the kennels. Ben Bones knew, holding the Girls back on their leashes as they crowded around the King, whining with eager excitement as they sniffed and pawed at his boots. Robb looked at the shaggy creatures with something that almost resembled pity, but his face betrayed no fear. Did he not know they were going to rip and tear at his dead limbs before the day was out?

Ramsay grinned and petted their heads, whispering praise and rambling on about the breed, how they were the fastest and strongest hounds in the North, and how he would send Robb’s uncle Edmure a pup as his wedding gift. Sometimes it seemed like he _believed_ all the tales he told, Theon thought, crouched in his corner. The bastard made a deep bow before his King. Sometimes Theon wondered how many truths there were in his world, and how many of them conflicting. But then the man straightened, and the hair that fell over his bright eyes did not conceal his smile, and he felt that sometimes it was better not to know.

Ramsay held the saddle steady when Robb set his foot in the stirrup, and he rested his hand on his leg when he sat. It wasn’t a bad horse they had given him, a mare only slightly past her prime, but lean and strong, just right for swift travel. Just right for the hunt, but no match for _Blood,_ Lord Ramsay’s own steed. There was a slight limp to her step, very slight. Just enough.

They looked at each other, the tension between them almost palpable, and for a long, terrified moment Theon thought Robb might kick him, might draw his sword and attack him. Might do something stupid. But Robb simply nodded once, his fingers clasped tightly on the reins until Ramsay withdrew. He was not stupid.

“May the gods watch over you, Your Grace.” Ramsay stepped back from the horse, extending his hand in Theon’s direction. “Come say your goodbyes, Reek.”

*

Sunrise had come and passed before they followed, though Ramsay lost no time, his horse already saddled and waiting for them when they entered the stables. _He does not want to lose this game._

Blood was impatient and ill-tempered as always, snorting and kicking his hooves in disapproval when he smelled Reek. Still, Ramsay insisted he sit behind him in the saddle, thin arms wrapped around his waist, _Lest you’re blown away like a leaf in the wind, Reek. We wouldn’t want that, would we?_

“No, m’lord,” he had mumbled, biting back a sound of pain as he tried to find a comfortable position. He did not want to imagine what a full gallop would be like, but he knew he would soon find out.

_Gods,_ he thought, turning his eyes toward the pale grey sky as they emerged from the Dreadfort’s dark mouth and broke into a canter, and he held on for dear life despite himself. The Girls led, and Blood followed.

_Let me be blown away._

 

Theon could not have said how much time had passed or how many miles they had made, only that his eyes were red and swollen and his face cold with tear-streaks when Ramsay finally let out a triumphant howl and put his heels into the horse, charging past the dogs. He had to blink several times to make his eyes focus, peering past Ramsay’s shoulder until he glimpsed the rider in the distance. The land was open and almost plain here, making him an easy target. Theon's heart thumped in his chest.

Robb was too slow, far too slow as they came ever closer. The mare’s limp was more pronounced now, though the poor creature was running for her life. She must hear the dogs in the distance by now.

Finally, when they were close enough to hear her hooves, Ramsay brought his steed to a stop and unstrapped his crossbow. Robb did not look back, but crouched down lower in the saddle. _It’s not enough,_ Theon thought desperately. _Ramsay never misses his mark. He never comes back empty-handed._

Almost as if he’d heard his thoughts, an exhilarated laugh burst from Ramsay’s lips like the cry of a bird of prey, and his hands were so eager they almost trembled when he nocked a bolt.

Theon’s hands, too, had trembled for a long time, the four remaining fingers of his left wrapped gingerly around the hilt of a dagger on Ramsay’s hip, the metal and garnets smooth and cold against his clammy skin. He imagined the sound of the blade as it came free of its leather sheath, and the wet sound Ramsay’s flesh would make around it as it gave way to its bite. A chill ran along his spine that had him struggling not to shiver and shake. He must not draw attention to himself. _I need only take it_. _He’ll bleed the same as any other man. I’ve killed men before._ Something in him flinched from the thought like it was a white-hot iron, like it was forbidden. _No,_ it said, _you didn’t. Theon did._

It was almost too easy. Did Ramsay truly trust him so blindly? He had let him shave him before, back in the castle, in his chambers, the blade flat against his throat. Theon remembered the sound it had made as it scraped along the skin, breathlessly careful not to leave a scratch. Back then he’d been Reek, good, loyal Reek, desperate to please his master. If he did well enough there was food, sometimes wine, and he’d be allowed to sleep near the fire. If he did well enough there was no pain. Ramsay never ran out of things to tempt or threaten Reek with, making him grovel and crawl at his whim. But right here, right now, pressed against Ramsay’s back, he was Theon, had always been Theon, and Theon would not watch Robb die. Not while he still had fingers left to hold a knife.

“Watch closely, Reek,” Ramsay said on a breath, and his large frame became very still as he steadied the weapon. “I’ll put it right between his shoulder blades.”

 

Robb’s eyes were full of water, his hair full of wind as he hunched down lower in the saddle, making himself smaller, but he was still far too big a target, far too easy, all the Bastard needed to do was put an arrow in his horse and he’d be food for the crows. He was not scared of death, he realised, not truly, but his heart nearly burst with pain when he thought of his lady mother, and his sisters … and his brothers. His brothers, who might yet live, hiding somewhere out in the woods by Winterfell, waiting for him.

Inevitably, his thoughts wandered back to Theon and the past night, what he’d come to do and what he’d done in the end, and he bit back a sob the wind might have torn from his lips otherwise, to carry it back to where he knew they were waiting.

_Gods, do not let me die like this. Let me right my wrongs._

He thought he heard a scream behind him then, but it sounded like nothing human, and he dared not look back, if simply for fear of an arrow entering his eye just as he turned his head.

There was nothing he could do but ride on, and on, and on, until the mare refused to take another step and he thought she might die if he did not grant her some rest, leaving him stranded out in the cold.

He listened into the wind for a long time, trembling as he leaned against the exhausted horse, but there were no more screams in the distance, and no dogs that he could hear.

*

Theon tried to breathe, but his chest would not move, stubborn and constricted and too small for his lungs. There was pain as well, a broken rib, maybe two. He coughed feebly. It was all too much, Ramsay too heavy, the ground too hard, his head too empty. The wind was icy blades on his reddening face, harsh and cold as it swept across the plains. He’d longed for it, many nights and many days, down in the suffocating darkness and stillness of the dungeons, where Ramsay’s breath was the only breeze he knew. Now it was just a jape, a cruel mockery of freedom that would never be his again. Part of him wished he could melt and bleed into the earth. But he had done it all for Robb, and Robb had escaped because of him. Robb would live and laugh because he hurt and could not breathe, and the thought was enough to add a sweetness to his pain that almost made him smile.

 

Ramsay stirred after what felt like an eternity. At first it sounded like a cough, rough and wet, coming from some place deep within him, and for the fraction of a moment Theon hoped there might be something torn inside him, broken beyond repair. Perhaps he would die right there, on top of him, and press him into the ground until their skeletons became one, rotting piles of entangled bones forever caught in a sweet embrace.

But it was not a cough. Ramsay chuckled, first curiously breathless and overwhelmed, then louder, his entire body shaking with laughter while Theon squirmed underneath him. Then, all of a sudden, he sat up and turned, and straddled Theon, planting his knees either side of him in the dirt. He moved with ease, apparently unharmed by the fall.

“My sweet, stupid Reek,” he said softly, as he bent over him and took his face in his hands. Blood trickled from his mouth in a thin rivulet, and soon a drop fell, their faces too close for it to be carried away by the breeze. Theon shuddered at the splash on his skin, his stomach turning.

“Such a slow learner indeed.”

Their lips met, and Theon’s mouth filled with Ramsay’s tongue, moist and slick, a piece of moving meat, and his eyes filled with tears, his legs twitching uncontrollably as his head was trapped between those monstrous hands, pulling him ever closer. He could hear the Girls in the distance, though their voices were getting closer, calling for their master as they made their way back to them. They were only beasts, but Theon shivered when he imagined how they would gather round and just _watch._

Ramsay had never bothered with kisses before, never pretended Theon was more than a toy to serve his passing urges, but there were first and last times for everything. His mouth was a foul cave of rot and ruin, he knew, Ramsay’s faint taste of blood and spiced wine almost a kindness. _May he choke on my poison._

Ramsay’s lips moved after a while, pressing wet kisses to his cheeks, his eyelids, his brow, his throat. Theon could feel him against his chest as he moved, hot and insistent, wild and excited from the hunt, the fall, the body writhing beneath him.

He thought he was going to take him right then and there on the hard ground with the chill of the evening creeping up on them, rape him like he raped the girls he hunted. While the dogs looked on. _And he’ll cut my throat after,_ Theon told himself as he felt the cool metal of the dagger still clasped in his hand, still slick with horse blood. _I’ll do it myself if he doesn’t._ Ramsay stilled for a moment, as if reading his thoughts, and his eyes flickered briefly to the knife before he resumed his kisses, only spurred on by the slightest chance of a thrill. Of course, his Reek would never hurt him. He couldn’t even bring himself to stab him in the back to save Robb’s life. He’d rather kill himself than lay hand on him. Ramsay seemed to shudder with delight when the realisation settled in both their minds as one.

His breath mingled with the cold wind when he brought his lips close to Theon’s ear, and it was like being embraced by storm, swallowed by a thunderclap. And like the strange but distinct feeling of dread that precedes a bolt of lightning, Theon’s heart skipped a beat when Ramsay opened his mouth to speak.

“You think you saved him, don’t you?” He lifted his head then, just enough so they could look into each other’s eyes, and for once Theon did not flinch. He looked up at Ramsay, feeling the weight of his body and his own body, and the weight of the dagger in his hand, and despite his broken ribs no breath had ever felt so free. When he smiled, he was almost himself.

“I saved him,” he said with the gleeful stubbornness of a dying man, his voice hoarse and old. His smile froze when Ramsay mirrored it.

“My dear, sweet, stupid Reek.” His thumb brushed over his bottom lip, resting in the corner of his mouth for a moment as if he wanted to savour the feeling of skin sliding back into place as the smile slowly vanished.

“Robb is riding for the Twins, to attend Edmure Tully’s wedding. He’ll be with my father soon.” He bit his lip, denying himself a chuckle that was fighting to break free, determined to make the moment last. He nodded slowly as he saw the realisation blossom on Theon’s face.

“That’s right, Reek. He’ll be with my father soon … And soon he’ll be with his own.”

Red Jeyne nuzzled at his face then, and for a moment he was a just a boy, laughing as her tongue tickled his cheek. The smile he gave Theon when he returned his attention to him was so carefree and easy, it was worse than any threat, any promise of pain.

“Now Reek,” he said softly, grinding his hips against the slighter man just because he _could,_ “why don’t you give me that knife? Be good and I’ll let you choose a finger from the hand that held it.”

For a moment, Theon could almost hear his screams as he drove the blade through his heart, again and again and again, before the Girls would rip him to shreds. Then he thought of Robb’s tired face, and Lord Roose’s soft voice he remembered from a lifetime ago, and how it had all been in vain. Robb was gone now, off to find whatever fate awaited him, and for all he cared, Theon Greyjoy was dead, no more real than any fever dream. _It’s true,_ he thought dizzily, as his hand slipped from the dagger and Theon slipped away to make room for Reek. Ramsay pressed one last kiss to his forehead before he stood, saying something about _going home_.

_He never misses his mark._


End file.
